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Aug 15 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Smeller vs. Denier (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

“Good evening, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Ms. Tsang.”

“Can I offer you something?”

“Oh, no thank you.  My stomach is positively spinning after this evening.  Is Mr. Hatcher available?”

Hatcher's smelliest case yet.

Hatcher’s smelliest case yet.

My landlandy made a sweeping gesture toward me.

“Couldn’t get rid of him if I tried.  He’s all yours.”

I stood up and put my bowl down.  Sweet Merciful Heavens, Delilah was wearing the crap out of that dress.

All I could do was spit on my thumb and try desperately to rub the stain off my trench coat.

I wasn’t sure how long it’d been there.  I couldn’t remember eating anything that looked like it.

“Au chante, Ms. Donnelly,”  I said as I took my visitor’s hand and kissed it.  “Au chante.  What a vision.”

“You’re too kind, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Simply stunning,”  I said.  “A lesser man than I would lose control of himself and be all over you.”

“Please settle down,”  Delilah said as she scooched into the booth.  “I should hate to have to mace you.”

“I’m already blinded by your beauty.”

“Must I always fend off your advances every time I stop by?”

“No,”  I said.  “You can surrender to base desire anytime you like.”

The blonde passed me an envelope.  I’d become all too familiar with this ritual.

A visit from Delilah.  An envelope.  A Pop Culture Mystery begins.

It was all too neat and tidy, as if written for the reading pleasure of 3.5 readers.

“I take no credit for this mystery,”  Delilah said.  “Mr. Battler is putting his eccentricity on full display with this inquiry and I don’t care for the subject matter at all.”

I opened up the envelope and perused the contents.

Hatcher,

Hatfields vs. The McCoys.  Sunni vs. Shia.  East Coast vs. West Coast Rappers.

From the dawn of time, various factions have deemed it necessary to go to war.

But never has there been a conflict that has stood the test of time as long as the feud between the Smellers vs. Deniers.

A group gathers.  They’re sociable.  Enjoying one another’s company.

Suddenly, a noxious odor permeates the nasal passages of everyone in the room.

And then it begins with an accusation.

One person, assumably after having smelled the proverbial “it” lashes out.  Angry, confused, and yes, perhaps just a bit too judgmental, this individual points a finger at the one believed to be the source of the flatulence, demanding justice and satisfaction on behalf of all the offended olfactory glands in the room.

But what is the accuser’s true motivation?  Is the accuser actually offended OR could the accuser be trying to cover up the dirty deed, shifting blame away from himself and onto an unwitting patsy?

Naturally, the accused party goes on the defensive.  Perhaps the accused is innocent, the victim of an unruly lynch mob.  Or, perhaps the accused is indeed guilty, but yearns for forgiveness and wishes to avoid blame.

After all, haven’t the best of us lost control of our bowels at inopportune moments?  Let he who hath never experienced an unintended cheek squeak cast the first fecal stone.

The accused thrusts back with a most assured, “HE WHO SMELT IT, DELT IT!” thus turning the tables and shifting the accuser’s status from accuser to accused.

Now the newly accused, the former accuser, parries with a comeback of, “HE WHO DENIED IT, SUPPLIED IT!”

And around, around it goes.

Where does it stop?

I hope you will know.

The smeller?  The denier?  Who’s responsible?

Beware, Hatcher.  This case stinks.

“Really?”  I asked.

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “I have half a mind to tender my resignation.”

“I hope you don’t,”  I said.  “I doubt Battler’s next ambulance chaser would be as easy on the eyes.”

“Is that all you’re interested in?  A pretty face.”

“No,” I said.  “I seek a mythical, often spoken of but rarely observed woman.  One with looks AND brains.  That’s why you enchant me so, Ms. Donnelly.  You’re the unicorn I’ve been searching for.”

The lady lawyer stood up.

“I think you’ll find that I’m not very horny, Mr. Hatcher.”

Wow.  What scandalous double entendre.  Whenever I think Delilah’s a square, she never ceases to knock it out of the park.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be off now,”  Delilah said.

I walked my guest to the door.

“You must have really put on the ritz tonight,” I said.

“Oh, this?”  Delilah said, noting her fabulous dress.  “Yes, the Bolshoi is in town.”

“I see.  And how is your gentleman caller?”

“As none of your business as ever.”

“Ouch,”  I said.  “Retract the claws. A man can make conversation, can’t he?”

“If that’s all he’s doing.”

I opened the front door.  A limo was waiting for her.

“Is he in there?”  I asked.  “Can I meet your fella?”

“I’m not sure that would be a wise idea.”

“I understand.”

“Finally,”  Delilah replied.

“He’s uglier than a donkey’s butt and you’re too embarrassed to introduce me.  Say no more.”

Delilah sighed.

“Oh Mr. Hatcher.  You’re simply incorrigible.”

The chauffeur walked around and opened the door.

“Say, Ms. Donnelly?”  I asked as my colleague took a seat in her fancy ride.

“Yes?”

“Bolshoi,”  I said.  “That’s ballet, isn’t it?”

“The finest in the world.”

“Think you could score a private dick a couple of tickets?  I know someone who’d like to go.”

“But of course, Mr. Hatcher.  But of course.”

The chauffeur shut the door.  I went back inside and returned to my rice.

It was cold.

Smelt it.  Delt it.  Flatulential accusations.

I knew what Bookshelf Q. Battler was talking about all too well.

I’d once been trapped in a similar situation myself.

An impromptu toot.  A pointed finger.  Anger on both sides.

I doubt the world will ever understand how close it came to a third world war and how I prevented it from taking place.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license

All Rights Reserved.

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Aug 14 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 7)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

 

QUESTION 1

DELILAH:  Informant Zero, I shall proceed with Mr. Battler’s first question.  In the song,  My Humps, the artist Fergie was asked multiple times by her bandmates, the Black Eyed Peas, what would she do, and I quote, “with all that junk inside that trunk?”

What exactly did she do with that junk in her trunk?

“What, was she moving?”  I asked.

“Innuendo for her extensive backside, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Ahh,”  I said.

Informant Zero took a drag on his cigarette.  He was quiet, clearly deep in thought.  Then it came to him.

“As I recall, according to that 2005 hit, Fergie specifically stated, and I quote, ‘I’ma get, get, get, get you drunk, get you love drunk off my hump’ and from there on she uses the words ‘humps’ and ‘lumps’ interchangeably.”

“I don’t get it,”  I said.

“In reference to her voluptuous figure, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah explained.

“Oh.  In that case I’ve been love drunk off your humps for quite some time, Ms. Donnelly.”

“The only thing you’re drunk off of is cheap bourbon.”

“Touche.”

“This is my favorite part of the blog,”  Informant Zero said to me.  “When Ms. Donnelly shuts down your incessant advances.”

“I’ll shut you down, Jack.”

QUESTION 2

DELILAH:  Mr. Battler also asks, “If Iron Man has so many back up suits, why does he not simply give each member of the Avengers their own suit?”

“Ms. Donnelly,”  I said.  “It pains me to hear talk of comic books coming from your angelic voice.  Someday we need to talk about why you waste your time helping Battler at all.”

“But that sometime is not today, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Wow,”  Informant Zero said.  “What a stumper.  But I’ve got it.  The Hulk is a rage monster.  He’s barely controllable as it is.  Put an enormous psychopath inside a suit that will make him even stronger?  That spells disaster.  Thor?  He’s the Son of Odin. He’s royalty in Yodenheim.  Do we trust Thor’s people?  I mean, do we really trust them?  Would he take that suit back to his own world, have his Norse scientists reverse engineer it and make a bunch of them?  Before you know it, you’ve got a race of white self-proclaimed supermen waging a war of global conquest on Earth.”

“Been there, done that, bought the T-shirt,”  I said.  “Called it WWII.”

“Stark won’t give Capt. America an iron suit on account of how they’ll go their separate ways in next year’s Marvel Civil War movie.  I’m going to be there with bells on.”

“This guy,”  I said as I pointed to him but looked at Delilah.  “Is just like Battler.  A nerd who just sits around and wastes all his time on comic books and movies.”

“Indeed,”  Delilah said.  “But I think he might just be the nerd that Mr. Battler needs.”

“Thank you,”  Informant Zero said.  “Hawkeye wouldn’t want the suit because he couldn’t contribute his archery prowess with metal hands.  And Black Widow?  You could give her an iron suit but it’d lead to global destruction once a month.”

Delilah was aghast.

“Maybe you’re right, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “Perhaps I should start to question why I waste my time on this drivel.”

QUESTION 3

Finally, Mr. Battler wants to know whether or not Tony Soprano died in the series finale of HBO’s The Sopranos.

“Isn’t that the question we all want an answer to?”  Informant Zero asked.

“Not really,” I replied.

“Producer David Chase gave us a do-it-yourself ending.  That’s sure to always generate controversy with fans who’ve invested hours of their lives in a series.  People want closure.  It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as whatever it is, is directly spelled out.”

“So spell it out,”  I said.

“We see the Soprano family enjoying a night out at a restaurant.  Tony, Carmella, and son Anthony Jr. all gather around a table eating onion rings.  Daughter Meadow is late, and a great deal of emphasis is placed on her inability to properly parallel park her car.  The viewer’s mind races.  ‘Is the family about to be killed?  Is Meadow going to luck out through her tardiness?’  A man in a Member’s Only jacket goes to the bathroom.  Is he just a random fellow who needs to wizz or, in true Godfather tradition, is he going to come out of the shitter guns blazing?”

“Who cares?”  I asked.

“You would had you watched it,”  Informant Zero said.  “Chase was creative, I’ll give him that.  In the past, the answer would have been, ‘it’s up to you.’  However, Chase has since stated publicly that Tony Soprano lived.  What did Tony do next?  Your guess is as good as mine.”

“TV never got better than I Love Lucy if you ask me.  Redhead wants to sing at the club.  Husband says no.  Hilarity ensues.”

“You should catch up on the shows you missed while you were Rip Van Winkling, Hatcher,” Informant Zero said.  “Things have gotten more interesting than a duo of housewives stomping on grapes.”

“Mr. Zero,” Delilah said.  “Do you seek compensation?”

“Now wait a minute,”  I said.  “If he gets offered more than five bucks a case, I’m walking.”

“I’m going to write a number down on this piece of paper, Ms. Donnelly.  I think Mr. Battler will find it more than satisfactory.”

Informant Zero scribbled away then handed the note over.

Delilah looked surprised, then showed me the paper.

“A zero?”  I asked.

“Just like my name,”  Informant Zero said.  “Zero symbolizes nothing and yet, as a concept, it still exists.  That is what I strive to be.  No one knows who I am.  I work to make the world a better place and yet I strive to remain unidentified and unidentifiable.  I am nothing and I also exist.”

“How poetic,”  Delilah said.

“Battler will be happy, the cheap bastard.”

Delilah stood up.  I followed.

“I believe we’ve reached an accord, Mr. Zero.  I shall relay the details of our rendezvous with Mr. Battler and draw up a memorandum of understanding immediately.”

“Very well, Ms. Donnelly.  Mr. Hatcher.”

The door buzzed.  Informant Zero’s goon was waiting for us.

“But Hatcher?”

I turned around.  The shadowy information broker had one more thing to say.

“While I don’t seek monetary compensation, know that one day I might call on you to assist me with a favor.  I won’t disturb you unless it’s a task that only a man of your mettle is qualified for, but when that day comes, I hope my assistance will have obtained me the benefit of your skills.”

“You don’t want me to rub the cowboy down with cottage cheese do you?”

“No,”  Informant Zero said.  “Nothing so undignified.  It will no doubt be a task that a man with your sense of right and wrong won’t be able to ignore.”

“Try me,”  I said as I led Delilah out.

“I will.”

The goon called the elevator.  Moments later it dinged and we were inside.

“I don’t like this, Ms. Donnelly.  Not one bit.”

“Indeed, Mr. Hatcher,”  Delilah said.  “We shall have to do our very best to keep Informant Zero at arm’s length.”

shutterstock_278169329

 

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Aug 13 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes – What is the Role of the Bookshelf Battle Blog in the Story?

Hey 3.5 readers.

“It’s a blog that writes about itself. Exceptionally confusing.”

Welcome to another “Pop Culture Mysteries: Behind the Scenes,” the only column where I, Bookshelf Q. Battler, ask random Internet folk for writing advice because my friends and family are such that they’ll laugh their asses off if I tell them that I’m helping a 95 year old private dick write his memoirs.

There’s been an issue in the back of the mind and it starts to come to the forefront in the Informant Zero story.

OK.  Stay with me here.

  • Jake is a writer for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.
  • The Bookshelf Battle Blog exists in the Pop Culture Mysteries world.  It has to, because Bookshelf Q. Battler bosses Jake around through his attorney, Delilah K. Donnelly.
  • Ergo, won’t people, when they meet Jake, look up the Bookshelf Battle Blog and learn about Jake’s past and his special abilities (non aging, invincibility, etc)

Originally, I thought I’d go with that old cliche where the special hero doesn’t reveal his special-ness to people he meets.  The vampire hides his fangs and blends in with the norms.  Superman puts on a pair of glasses.  Bruce Wayne pretends to be an do-nothing playboy.

Wait, let’s back up a minute.

THUS FAR, WHO KNOWS THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK?

  • Ms. Tsang, obviously, because she took care of him while he was asleep for decades.  Eventually, I’ll work it into the story how that burden really sucked for her and kept her from doing a lot of things she wanted to do in life, including starting a family, because, you know, how do you explain to people that there’s a gumshoe upstairs that just sleeps forever, never grows old and stays young?
  • Delilah K. Donnelly and Bookshelf Q. Battler – Battler’s claim to be able to answer Jake’s question of why did he sleep for 60 years is the center point of the series.  Battler knows, his trusted attorney Delilah knows, but they aren’t telling until 100 Pop Culture Mysteries are solved.  (Or does Battler know – is he just yanking Jake’s chain for the unscrupulous purpose of bringing a writer with an interesting story to his blog?)
  • Others from Jake’s Past, Who May or May Not Start Appearing in the Future, and If They Do, Only BQB and Delilah Will Know Why Past People are Showing Up in the Future – We’ll get to that.  Mickey Finn (Jake’s old partner), first girlfriend Peaches, his three ex-wives and anyone else from the past is fair game to return to the future.

THUS FAR, WHO DOESN’T KNOW THAT JAKE IS A 95 YEAR OLD PRIVATE DICK? – Agnes Abernathy, aka Agnes the Librarian, is Jake’s unwilling research assistant.  As a public librarian in a busy city library, she’s used to all types wandering in and bugging her to look stuff up for them.  Hobos and bums often use the library as place to hang out and up until Fan Dime Drops, Agnes thought that Jake was another bum.  She still thinks Jake is odd, but after seeing Delilah meet with Jake, she at least believes that Jake writes for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

BUT – she has yet to realize that Jake is a 95 year old private dick.

BUT – if Agnes keeps helping Jake research “cases” for the Bookshelf Battle Blog, wouldn’t Agnes one day be curious enough to take a peak at the Bookshelf Battle Blog and therefore, read Jake’s tales of stuff that happened to him long, long ago?

THUS – I’m not sure how I’ll handle this.  Right now, I’m leaning toward the possibility that:

  • Agnes checks out the BB Blog.
  • Agnes does read Jake’s stories that happen long ago.
  • Agnes assumes either a) Jake’s a nut (like she already does) or b) Jake’s just a modern day 35 year old and he’s just really into historical fiction and roleplaying and enjoys it so much that he walks around in a fedora and trenchcoat.

BUT – Will Jake openly share his “secret” with people?

OPTION 1 – Yes.  After all, Ma Hatcher taught him never to tell a lie.  He’ll wander LA, openly telling people he’s 95 years old and slept for 60 years without reservation. Most people won’t believe him, but at least he didn’t lie.

OPTION 2 – No.  Best to keep it hush hush.  Yes, I, Jake, do claim to be 95 years old on the blog, but that’s just for fun, don’t believe it.

Either way, most people Jake meets in modern times will not believe it.

WHAT ABOUT FUTURE MODERN WORLD CHARACTERS JAKE WILL MEET?

Remember that story, The Wrong Guy, I half finished?

I decided it was too early for all the revelations in that, and to hold off.

SPOILER ALERT:

BUT  – I hope that story will end with Jake meeting a female present day LA police detective.

Female dick...er, detective.

Female dick…er, detective.

Remember how Jake took out a few drug dealers?

The female detective will look at Jake as an off-kilter vigilante and start watching him, looking for a way to bring Jake in.  More and more, Jake will start using his private dick powers to help modern day people.

So, yeah.  Jake’s kinda like Batman.  And the female detective will kinda be like the cops that think Batman’s a menace.

Or maybe Jake’s not like Batman.  Maybe Jake’s honest to everyone about his powers and no one believes him.

It’d be like if Bruce Wayne were to walk around shouting, “I’m Batman!” and everyone’s like, “That’s impossible!  Stop lying, Bruce.”

(Will Jake and the female detective ever come to an understanding and work together? Your guess is as good as mine).

BUT – I guess, like AGNES, the question will be, will the female cop, after reading the BB Blog to find out more about Jake, believe Jake is 95 or just assume he’s crazy or writing fiction?

OTHER ISSUES:

  • INVINCIBILITY – In the Wrong Guy, (there’s already some posts that show it) we learn that in modern times, Jake doesn’t just not age.  He’s invincible.  Shoot him.  Stab him.  Toss him off a building.  Whatever.  Jake still keeps ticking.  Note in the past, from 1920 (his birth) to 1955 ( his nap) he was mortal and could have been killed, but now he can’t.  It’s all part of the mystery that we HOPE Bookshelf Q. Battler will reveal once the 100 mysteries are solved.
  • HOW TO HANDLE THAT – It’s the blog issue all over again.  If Jake writes about his invincibility on the blog, won’t characters read about it?  Will Jake just be honest and tell them, “Yup, I’m invincible” will he hide it or will characters just assume he’s lying until they somehow see it happen ( They witness Jake get shot and get back up and are like, oh ok, Jake’s not lying.)
  • BB Blog vs. PCM Blog – Once I write the rough draft of the first season here on the BB blog, I’ll rewrite it, revise it, and then start posting it on the PCM Blog.  So should I not refer to BB Blog and just have Delilah recruit Jake to work for the PCM blog?  I actually think I should just start the season with a note that this all started on the bookshelf battle blog, this is how Jake solved a bunch of mysteries for the bb blog at first, and then work it into the story (I start to in Informant Zero) that Jake will be shifting to the PCM blog.  So the first season will be about how Jake moved from BB to PCM.
  • AGNES – Do you guys like the Agnes character?  I’m toying with the idea that she eventually leaves the library and becomes Jake’s secretary.  On the PCM blog, she might get a regular column where she promotes indie authors by listing five-ten indie books she’d like to see in her library.  (Of course, then she can’t become Jake’s secretary, she’ll have to stay at the library.

SO HOW THE HELL WILL JAKE FUNCTION IN THE MODERN WORLD?  

Eventually, Jake’s going to need:

  • Money – And more than BQB’s cheap-o $5 bucks a case.  Per Delilah’s suggestion, Jake will have to start looking for actual, REAL mystery having clients who pay a lot more than $5.  Ms. Tsang can’t carry Jake’s ass forever.
  • Papers – Jake’s 95 years old.  His driver’s license, documents, etc., they’re all 60 years old.  Maybe Ms. Donnelly can work some of her legal magic to get Jake recognized as an actual citizen…which will require them to show he was born in 1981!  (Hell, maybe that’s a job for an Informant Zero).

AND FINALLY, WRAP YOUR HEAD AROUND THIS ONE….

  • If Jake was an infamous lawman in the 1940s and 50’s
  • Then surely, like Elliot Ness and other famous crimefighters, news articles were written about him.
  • Those articles probably printed his picture at the time.
  • And that picture will look like Jake now.
  • So if a) Jake tries to not let people in on the secret that he’s 95 OR if people refuse to believe it even though he’s up front about it:
  • Then how do we reconcile this?

I’M LEANING TOWARDS – People have a habit of explaining away the supernatural.  That bump in the night isn’t a ghost.  It’s your house settling.

(Calm down!  It’s not really a ghost!  Sheesh!)

OPTIONS:

  1.  If Jake hides his secret, he tells people who ask about the resemblance to past Jake that he’s the grandson of infamous 40s 50s lawman Jake Hatcher and was named after him.
  2. But I think I’m leaning towards Jake just is open and honest to everyone that he’s 95 and if they don’t believe it, that’s their problem.  Because people are quick to rationalize the supernatural, these people, like Agnes or the female detective, might just write the resemblance off as a coincidence.
  3. Maybe Delilah goes behind Jake’s back and tells them “Hey, yeah, Jake’s really the grandson of Jake Hatcher from long ago and he just likes to play pretend.”

I dunno.  Many possibilities there.

What I’m realizing is when you move from an idea to actual publication, so, so many loose ends pile up then you have to tie up.

Maybe that’s why so many aspiring novelists quit.  Every new plot point raises more questions to be answered.

But I don’t want to quit.

BUT WAIT A MINUTE, DOESN’T THE BOOKSHELF BATTLE BLOG ONLY HAVE 3.5 READERS?

Yes.  I’m also thinking maybe it’s possible to completely, totally, and utterly WIPE OUT all my above worries by plugging in the following joke somewhere into the season:

JAKE:  Ms. Donnelly, I don’t get it.  I’ve publicly written on the Bookshelf Battle Blog that I’m 95 years old, that I was once a famous lawman, and that I took a 60 year nap.  Why doesn’t anyone I meet ever ask me about that?

DELILAH:  Because no one ever reads the Bookshelf Q. Battle Blog, Mr. Hatcher.  It only has 3.5 readers.

JAKE:  Well, what do you know?  I’m hiding in plain sight!

If I go that route – NO ONE bothers to read the BB Blog because it’s so obscure.  Agnes never reads it.  The female detective never reads it.  They wonder why Jake looks like Jake Hatcher from the 40s and 50s, and Jake tells them he’s his grandson, and because the blog only has 3.5 readers, Jake’s secrets are safe.

Of course, that’ll only work for the first season, and then the joke will have to transfer to the PCM Blog and become that Pop Culture Mysteries only has 3.5 readers, or that anything BQB is involved in is cursed to only have 3.5 readers.

OK then.  Thanks 3.5.  Your feedback is appreciated.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

Copyright BQB all rights reserved 2015

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Aug 10 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries: Informant Zero (Part 3)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1      Part 2  

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

After leading us through a door and down a dark hallway, the cowboy screeched his Segway to a halt in front of an elevator.

He pushed the down button.

“Here, buckaroos, is where I leave you.”shutterstock_239019796

“OK then,”  I said.  “Happy trails, pardnah.'”

“Before I go…the rules.”

“The rules!”  the cowboy repeated loudly.  “You’ll follow them to the letter if you don’t want to get thrown out of here.  Rule Number One.  Do not ask Informant Zero his name.  If he wanted you to know, he wouldn’t refer to himself as Informant Zero.”

“Makes sense.”

“Rule Number Two.  Do not touch Informant Zero in any way, shape, or form.”

“But I like touching shadowy underworld characters,”  I said.  “It’s a condition.  I can’t help it.”

Delilah tugged on my sleeve.  “Now is not the time, Mr. Hatcher.”

The cowboy squinted at me, attempting to discern whether or not I was joking.  Obviously I was, but he let it go.

“Rule Number Three, do not remove Informant Zero’s disguise.  He takes a number of precautions to hide himself from the world, and he needs to keep it that way.”

“Kinda redundant, Jack,”  I said.  “Touching him would be required to reveal him.  You could have stopped at number two.”

“NO, YOU COULD HAVE STOPPED AT NUMBER TWO!!!”

This guy was like a ticking time bomb, the slightest provocation set him off.

His comeback didn’t even make sense, but I didn’t want to rile him up any further.

“We like Informant Zero,”  the cowboy said.  “We want to keep him around.  People are only allowed to conduct business with him when they follow the rules, capiche?”

“I don’t know what you’re trying to…”

Another tug on my sleeve from Delilah.

“We capiche,” she assured our guide.  “We very much capiche, thank you Mr. Redacted.”

“All right then,”  the cowboy said as the elevator dinged.  “As long as you kemo sabes capiche.”

The doors opened and we stepped inside.

“Enjoy your visit and tell old IZ I said hello.”

Just before the doors closed, I snuck in a, “Go suck some cottage cheese ya’ sick bastard.”

And just before our descent, I heard a fist pound the metal doors, followed by an, “OW!!!  SON OF A…”

“Mr. Hatcher, that was quite uncalled for.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Donnelly.  I just didn’t like the cut of his jib.”

“Well you’re going to have to get used to jibs of all different shapes and sizes if you’re going to make it in this world.  The days when everyone marches to the tune of the same drummer are long gone.”

“Tell me about it.”

Like a trip to Veracruz, it was a long ride.

As we continued to plummet deep below the Earth’s surface, Delilah piped up again.

“Mr. Hatcher, were the olden days really that good?”

“Not at all,”  I said.  “Everyone foisted their personal beliefs on you and threatened to ruin you if you didn’t comply.”

“So why are you in such a hurry to get away from the present?”

I didn’t skip a beat.

“Because everyone foists their personal beliefs on me and threatens to ruin me if I don’t comply.”

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Jul 24 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries Gets Back to Basics

Read the Fine Print Whenever Ms. Donnelly is Involved.

Read the Fine Print Whenever Ms. Donnelly is Involved.

Happy Friday, 3.5 Readers.

Bookshelf Q. Battler here.

Among my many roles as Blogger-in-Chief of a blog read by 3.5 readers, I’m the boss of Pop Culture Detective Jake Hatcher, a hardboiled 1950’s private eye who sniffs out the answers to my questions about Hollywood and the entertainment industry.

Jake and I have never met in person.  Rather, I prefer to dispatch all my inquiries through Attorney Delilah K. Donnelly, Lead Counsel for the Bookshelf Battle Blog.

It’s kind of a Charlie’s Angels situation.  I ask the questions.  Delilah delivers them.  Jake hunts down the answers.  By keeping Delilah as a buffer, I’m able to retain Jake’s services and he’s not able to strangle me until I spill the beans to the secrets I’m keeping from him:

How did he fall asleep in 1955 and wake up in 2014 and more importantly, how can he get back to his own time?

Yes, I can help him with both questions, but I’m stringing him along until he’s solved 100 cases.

Feel free to thank me, 3.5 readers.  Sure, many bloggers put in a lot of work for their fans, but few are willing to extort a 1950s private investigator for your reading pleasure.

He’s gotten a bit carried away lately.  He’s starting writing down recollections of his adventures of a gumshoe.  I think they’re all interesting and worth sharing.

Two of his ideas in particular I hope to turn into self-published books, the profits of which I’ll keep because, you know, when Attorney Donnelly hands you a contract, you’d better read the fine print before signing.

Sorry Jake.

Anyway, the core concepts of this series:

1)  I have questions about popular culture.

2)  Referring to those questions as, “Pop Culture Mysteries” is funny.

3)  A 1950’s hard-boiled film noir style detective complete with trench coat and fedora tracking explaining the answers to these questions in traditional/stereotypical noir style (i.e. longwinded exaggeration and lots of ridiculous comparisons) is funnier.

Planning of novels set in Jake’s world are underway, but before the noble trio of Jake, Delilah, and myself do anything, we need to get a few more Pop Culture Mystery Questions answered and into the can.

Jake needs a fan base before he writes a couple of novels.  Otherwise, who’d buy them?

And how could I cut Jake out of the deal and use that sweet, sweet Amazon moolah to buy myself a Porsche?

Ah, don’t worry, 3.5 readers.

Behind that ice queen exterior, Attorney Donnelly often serves as the moral compass of this blog.

I’m sure she’ll twist my arm and convince me to share some of those book profits with our resident sleuth.

(I’ll need to keep some of it though just to pay Delilah’s latest legal bill though.  Sheesh!  Talk about billable hours!)

Don’t worry.  Jake will get back to regaling you all with The Wrong Guy, the story about how he tracked down the killer of his buddy Lou the liquor store owner.

But first, I need to put him on a more pressing case:

The Nicki Minaj Video Music Award (VMA) Snub – Does Her Complaint Have Merit?

Before Jake pounds the pavement on the trail of this caper, I’d like to take an informal poll:

What say you, 3.5 readers?  Is Nicki right?  Did she lose out because, as she tweeted, only certain “kinds” of artists get recognized?  Or, you know, should she just take all the money she made off of Anaconda and be happy?

Sour grapes or a star treated badly?

And what do you think about Taylor Swift and Katy Perry jumping into the fracas?

You tell me, 3.5.  You tell me.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 22 2015
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Self Publishing

Pop Culture Mysteries: Sneak Peak of Operation Fuhrerpunschen

shutterstock_193545215Before he became BQB’s Pop Culture Detective, Jake Hatcher was a down and out boxer forced by the evil Mugsy McGillicuddy to take a dive, thus tanking his chance at the big time, not to mention his budding romance with singer Peaches LeMay.

When Jake tries to escape his past by enlisting, he gets a second chance at the greatness he missed out on when he’s recruited by General George S. Patton, President Roosevelt, and Pre-CIA Agent Carmichael to take on the most daring mission in the history of warfare:

Infiltrate Das Fuhrerbunker and punch Adolf Hitler in the face before an equally skilled puncher sent by the Russians can.

Why?  Assassination attempts by his own men have left Hitler paranoid in the final days of World War II.  He’s banned all staff from carrying weapons, leaving him the only armed individual in the bunker.

No guns.  No knives.  Nothing.

Thus, Uncle Sam needs a man whose weapon is his fist.

Is this a viable novel idea?  Would you want to read a book about Hitler getting punched in the face?

The first three proposed chapters and outline of the rest:

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Outline of Rest 

Tear it apart, 3.5 Readers.  Be brutal and let me have it.

By the way, the Mr. Devil Man sneak peak was well received by the 3.5 and I plan on working on that too.  Ultimately, I hope to put both out.

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Jul 09 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 4

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Our hero wants booze.

Part 2 – Hatcher fends off an armed robber.

Part 3 – Hatcher dies?

Delilah was more stunning than usual, if that was even possible.  She was decked out in a red evening gown.  Her necklace and earrings were lousy with ice, more than you’d fine in an Eskimo’s freezer.

Betsy gone?! Say it 'aint so!

Betsy gone?! Say it ‘aint so!

I was in a tuxedo that was whiter than Tom Sawyer’s fence.

My date curled back an inviting finger, bidding me to join her on the ball room floor.

Wherever we were, it sure was a fancy place.  Folks who dressed like they were the creme de la creme gathered around on all sides to gawk at us.

The band struck up a romantic melody as I took Delilah in my arms. We moved in time with the tunes, our bodies totally simpatico.

“I never knew you were such an impressive dancer, Mr. Hatcher.”

“Neither did I, Ms. Donnelly, neither did I,”  I said as I dipped the beautiful blonde.  “But then again I always feel like I’m walking on air when I’m around you.”

Delilah puckered up and I took that as my cue to move in for the old smooch-a-roo.

Only something didn’t smell right.

“Hey!”

The band put their instruments down and Delilah stepped off the dance floor.

“What?”  I asked.

“HEY BUDDY!”

I jolted awake and back into reality.  Standing over me was a bum who smelled like he hadn’t bathed since water had been invented, which if you mull that one over, was a real long time.

“WHAT?!”

“You’re in my spot.”

It was morning.  The sun was shining, dragging the city’s seedy underbelly out into the light of day for a much needed introspection.

“What?”

“What, what, what,” the bum said.  Somewhere buried under his bushy beard was a mouth that was chewing me out royally.  “What’re you, one of them damn illegal immigrants that can’t speak the language?  This is MY dumpster and I’ll thank you to move!”

My neck.  I grabbed it.  Smoother than silk.  I picked up one of the shiny hub caps and used it as a mirror.

Not a scratch.

My clothes had been completely soaked red with blood but now they were cleaner than ever.

“Fella,”  I said.  “How long have you been standing there staring at me like that with your mouth hanging open like you’re the number one finalist in the inbreeding championships?”

“Couple hours,”  he said.  “God damn it.  Every time the shelter kicks me out I come back here and some a-hole has parked himself right next to my dumpster.”

I reached into my pocket.  My wallet was gone.  And my phone.  And the piece I lifted off Henneman.

The bum put a hand on my shoulder.  I shrugged it off and instinctively, reached for Betsy.

She was gone too.

Betsy and the holster I kept her in.  They were both gone.

I’d never felt more naked in all my life.

The bum put up his dukes like he was in the ring.

I stood up and laughed.

“No offense mister but I’d knock your lights out like the electric company coming for a guy who hasn’t paid his bill.  Here, have your damn dumpster.”

The bum made himself at home as I walked away.  I stopped in my tracks when I heard the sound of a crinkly paper bag being rustled.

I turned around.  The weirdo was attempting to pilfer my provisions.

I snatched the bag away from him.  Broken glass pieces on the ground led me to infer the extra bottles Lou had gifted me didn’t survive the fall, but my half-bottle of Orina de Serpiente was still safe in the bag.

I removed the bottle and tossed the bum the bag.

“There you go fella.  Put that on your head and it’ll be an improvement.”

I took a much needed pull and hit the street.

Had the whole attack been a dream?  Delilah certainly never would of danced with me, and I doubted I’d still be up and around if my neck had been sliced open like a hot loaf of rye bread.

In my mind, I rationalized the whole incident.  I must have gotten so drunk that I passed out and then my imagination worked overtime thanks to Snake Piss brand tequila.

I vowed to never touch the stuff again…as soon as I finished my bottle.

Couldn’t let it go to waste.

Surely, the kid hadn’t cut my throat.  He probably just found me lying there and robbed me while I was sleeping as payback.

What a little weasel.

I walked back to the Pack N’ Sack, figuring I’d talk Lou into letting me read one of his newspapers without paying for it, since the last two bucks to my name had been inside my wallet.

Maybe he’d even let me bum a smoke.  My pack was also missing.

Lou’s door was open.  Odd, since he didn’t open up till noon.

I walked in.

“Lou?”

I looked around.

It was quiet.  A little too quiet.

“Lou!”  I shouted.  “You in the back?”

I walked up to the counter and leaned up against it, waiting for my compadre to show himself.

Then I saw it…streaks of red on the floor off to one side of the counter.

I peaked over and there he was, poor Lou, deader than a door nail and filled with more holes than the plot of a network television show.

“God damn it.”

Copyright (c) 2015 Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 08 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – The Wrong Guy – Part 3

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Hatcher is on the hunt for hooch…

Part 2 – …but he “serves” a stick-up man instead.

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

Funny thing about La Orina de Serpiente.

Turns out you don’t buy it.  You only rent it.

shutterstock_71510056I’d parked my posterior on a city bench and helped myself to half a bottle.  Lou wasn’t joking about that dish rag flavor.  After a half-hour of wallowing in my sorrows, I felt leakier than a German U-Boat after a date with Admiral Nimitz.

I ducked into a dark alleyway, invited my John Thomas to step outside, and relieved myself behind a dumpster.

I’ve seen my fair share of dark alleys in my day, but this one was positively the pits.  Junk strewn everywhere, a moldy couch with a rat scurrying around the cushions, and a pair of beaten up chrome hubcaps propped up against a rusty dumpster.

I was surprised no one had stolen them yet.  Come to think of it, they were probably jacked off of some poor unsuspecting citizen’s vehicle and stashed there for safekeeping.

My moods have a tendency to swing like a pendulum when I’m on a bender.  Most of the time I feel lower than an ant competing in a limbo competition.  However, on that particular night I was feeling giddy.

“Pop Culture Mysteries.”  Five bucks for every entertainment related case I solve for a nerd.

Maybe Delilah was right.  Maybe I was better than this.

When the LAPD and I parted ways like a couple of ships passing in the night, there were plenty of naysayers who said I’d end up on the skids.

I showed them all and I showed them good.  In its heyday, “Hatcher Investigations” was the premiere private eye firm in the City of Angels.  I owed most of that to the organizational prowess of good old Connie, my former secretary and the third ex-Mrs. Hatcher.

Everyone from the lowliest mook to captains of industry ponied up the dough to purchase my sleuthing skills and by gum, if only I’d clean myself up and give the suds the old heave-ho, I could rebuild what I’d lost and become a respectable member of society again.

I’d just lectured that wannabe stick-up man about not ignoring a second chance and here I was giving short shrift to my own.

Sure, 2015 was a time that made absolutely no sense to me whatsoever but maybe I could embrace it, learn about it, and eventually call it my own.

Hell, maybe I could even turn myself into the kind of guy that could turn the head of one Ms. Delilah K. Donnelly.

I was so excited I broke out into song.

“Camptown races, sing this song!  Doo da!  Doo da!”

What do you want?  No, I wasn’t about to break out into one of those foul mouthed rap songs you folks seem to love nowadays.  Buncha grown men talking in rhyme about dames with corpulent derrieres.  The classics suited me just fine, thank you very much.

“Camptown races, sing this song…all the doo da…DACK!”

My good mood was a goner and so was I when a hand wrapped around my mouth and pulled me backward.  I felt a sharp pain as my throat opened up and blood gushed out of my carotid like an Old Faithful geyser blast.

The hand let me go and in vain, I spun around to confront my attacker only to fall flat on my back.

I was getting weaker and weaker.  I caught a glimpse of myself in the reflective surface of one of the hubcaps.  My throat looked like a pile of butchered meat ready to be sold for a buck a pound.  That was a good deal in my day.

I could barely make out my assailant’s face until he leaned in closer and pulled his hood back.

There he was.  Grinning at me like an idiot.

“What do you know?”  he said as he retracted a switchblade.  “Looks like I was the wrong guy after all.”

Everything went black and I was able to feel the kid rooting around in my pockets for a few seconds before I lost consciousness.

Looking back on it now, I wasn’t sure what infuriated me more:  that after a lifetime spent beating out Nazis and gangsters, I’d allowed a nobody to get one up on me, that I was left to die in a puddle of my own Orina, or that I’d yet to return my tallywacker to its natural habitat.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Image courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jul 03 2015
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Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #003 – Relationships (Part 2)

PREVIOUSLY ON POP CULTURE MYSTERIES…

Part 1 – Jake gets a late night visit from Attorney Donnelly.  Our resident gumshoe freaks out when Ms. Tsang comes home after midnight with a new beau.

AND NOW THE POP CULTURE MYSTERIES CONTINUE…

From the moth eaten pocket of my trench coat, I produced a worn out black and white photograph.  It was of yours truly standing next to an Asian couple and their eight year old daughter, a precocious kiddo with a wide smile and pig tails.

I handed it over to Ms. Donnelly.

Susan Tsang, Hatcher's Secret Niece/Unpaid Landlady

Susan Tsang, Hatcher’s Secret Niece/Unpaid Landlady

“You’re kidding,” was her reply.

“No ma’aam.”

“So she’s your…who is she to you exactly?”

“An adopted niece of sorts,”  I said.  “When my first marriage went up in a cloud of smoke and I was given the bum’s rush off the police force, I didn’t have two wooden nickels to rub together.  Ms. Tsang’s old man Joe was a buddy of mine in the war.  I saved his hide a few times and he was so grateful that he let me use the room upstairs as my office.”

“How old is she in this photo?”

“Ahh let’s see,”  I said.  “That was actually taken in 1955.  Same year I went under for the fifty-nine year nap.  She’d of been eight years old I think.”

Ms. Donnelly handed the picture back and I took another look at it.

“Jumpin’ Jehosaphat,”  I said.  “That little kid who used to run around this place is older than dirt now.”

“I understand the mathematics of it all,”  Delilah said.  “Technically, you’ve been alive for ninety-five years, but since you never aged past your mid-thirties, it just seems an odd sight to me to watch you lecture a woman who looks like she could be your mother.”

I tucked the photo back in my pocket for safe keeping.

“I surely do miss Joe and Evelyn,” I said.  “They were two of the good ones.  Let me use that room for years until my private investigation business began turning a profit.  I started paying them rent when I was able to afford it.  Kind of feel like a heel that I’m not able to now.”

“Perhaps you’ll find a few more clients with pockets deeper than Mr. Battler’s.”

It was a nice thought, but who’d hire a bum like me other than a second rate cheapskate Interwhatever scribe?

“Perhaps I will, Ms. Donnelly.  Perhaps I will.”

“You consider her a niece,”  Ms. Donnelly said.  “Yet you refer to her as, ‘Ms. Tsang?'”

“To keep up appearances,”  I answered.  “It’s not like I can walk around and tell people this woman who appears much older than I am is like a kid to me.”

“Some advice that you may take or leave at your leisure,”  Ms. Donnelly said.  “But she’s not a child anymore and maybe you shouldn’t treat her as such.”

Jake Hatcher, Pop Culture Detective/Secret Uncle

Jake Hatcher, Pop Culture Detective/Secret Uncle

“You’re right,”  I said.  “Hell, she kept this whole restaurant afloat after her parents passed on and took care of me while I was sleeping in the room upstairs for decades, so I should give her a little bit of credit.  Still, it’s hard not to worry about her when she’s out on the town.”

“I suppose a parent’s worries never end,”  Ms. Donnelly said.  “Or an adoptive uncle’s.”

“I trust you’ll keep this tidbit between us,”  I said.  “I’ve only shared it with you because of your trustworthy character, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Mum is the word, Mr. Hatcher.  Mum is the word.”

Delilah stood up, prompting me to do the same.

“If you’ll excuse me, I must be off.  I have to catch a two a.m. flight to Monte Carlo.”

“France,”  I said.  “Wow, Mr. Battler is pulling out all the stops.”

“Business for another client,”  Delilah said.  “There are people to work for other than Mr. Battler, Mr. Hatcher.  You should try it sometime.”

I held the door open for the lady.

“I’m touched that you trusted me enough to share the truth behind your relationship with Ms. Tsang ,”  Delilah said as she walked out the door.

A taxi cab was waiting for her.

“Touched enough to grab a bite to eat with me sometime?”

“Not that touched.”

“Of course,” I said.  “Good night, Ms. Donnelly.”

“Good night, Mr. Hatcher.”

I waited and watched until Ms. Donnelly was safely inside the cab and on her way before shutting the door and returning to the table.

I picked up the bottle.

“At least you never turn me down,”  I said as I poured a shot.

I swigged it back and opened the envelope.  A new letter from Mr. Battler.

Detective Hatcher,

A teenage boy.  A crazy wild-haired scientist.  A limited edition sports car that travels through time when it is driven at precisely eighty-eight miles per hour.

Doc Brown and Marty McFly entertained and thrilled audiences in the three part Back to the Future trilogy.  Together, the duo went on an adventure that took them to the 1950’s (which probably doesn’t seem so bad to you), a highly optimistic version of this year, 2015 (will scientists ever figure out how to rehydrate a pizza?) and even to the Old West.

One question the films failed to answer – how the hell did these two know each other in the first place?

I mean, honestly, three movies and not one peep about what kind of a relationship they had.

I’ve got to know, Hatcher.  Figure this out.

Sincerely,

Bookshelf Q. Battler

What a segue way.  Just moments earlier, I’d been discussing with Ms. Donnelly the nature of my relationship with Ms. Tsang and now Mr. Battler wanted an explanation of the relationship between a teenage time traveler and a mad scientist.

It was so convenient that it might as well have been written for the benefit of an Interwhatever site read by 3.5 readers.

And by the way, 3.5 readers, if you could keep the secret about Ms. Tsang under your hat, I’d appreciate it.  I never tell anyone because the last thing I need is for one of the criminals I’ve encountered to use information like that against me.

There are plenty of degenerates out there who are more than willing to hurt a fella’s loved ones just to get at him.

Luckily, only 3.5 people are reading this, so the secret should be safe.

Jake, we really need you to get to Doc and Marty.

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler 2015.  All Rights Reserved.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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Jun 23 2015
3 Comments
Pop Culture Mysteries

Pop Culture Mysteries – Case File #002 – Who Shot First? (Part 4)

I pointed Betsy straight at my newfound enemy and made my demands known.

“You’re gonna cut the bullshit fella or I’ll send you first class on a one-way trip to the great beyond, see?”

Streaming Media has timed out.  Try again?

I wanted to fill the desktop beep boop machine Delilah had gotten for me full of lead but somehow I had a hunch these things were more expensive to replace than a night on the town with Gina Lollobrigida.

Even so, I wasn’t about to spend all day trying to figure out how to work that blasted contraption.

I holstered Betsy and made my way to the LA Public Library.  Upon my arrival, I looked around for Agnes the Librarian, the only person I’d met so far in this ridiculous time period with the patience to help me navigate modern technology.

“Agnes!”  I shouted as I saw the old bird returning a book to its place on a shelf.

Agnes the Librarian

Agnes the Librarian

She turned around and hit me with an annoying “SHHHH!” that gave me half a mind to reach for Betsy.

But God knows Ma Hatcher would not have approved.

“Agnes,”  I whispered. “I’m hot on the trail of a case and I need you to work your magic on a beep boop machine.”

“What do you need?”  Agnes asked.

“You ever hear of a flick called, ‘Star Wars?‘”

“Have I heard of it?”  Agnes asked.  “Oh Good Gracious, I saw it when it first came out in the movie theater.”

“Great story,” I said, though I was completely uninterested in hearing it.  “You got a copy of it here?”

Agnes ignored me and carried on.

“Oh, that was such a long time ago,”  she said.  “Herbert and I were on a date.  We’d been going steady for awhile and of course, my parents didn’t approve, him being a Presbyterian and all but somehow…”

I grabbed the ancient broad by the shoulders.

“Land sakes alive, woman!”  I shouted, forgetting I was in a studious establishment.

A nerd who reminded me of my employer pulled his nose out of a science book and glared at me disapprovingly.

“Hey buddy!  Do you mind?  Some of us are trying to read here.”

“Land sakes alive, woman,” I repeated in a softer tone.  “Skip the story and put the movie on for me already.  I’ve got five big ones riding on this!”

“Hmmph,” Agnes said as she stormed off and waved her hand in a motion that bid me to follow.  “All you young people are all the same, never concerned with anyone but yourselves.”

She hooked a left and opened a door marked “Media Room.”

The flick in question came out in 1977 according to Mr. Battler’s note.  Agnes and Herbert, Agnes’ now ailing husband, went to see it on a date.  I started doing math in my head.

“Say Agnes,”  I said.  “How old were you when you and old Herbert saw this picture?”

The old gal handed me some kind of funny looking device.

“Stop it,”  Agnes said as she looked through a metal cabinet.  “You don’t need to pretend to care.”

“I’ve had a change of heart,”  I said.

“No no,” Agnes said.  “You young people just walk around checking your cell phones and updating your Facebook pages and if it isn’t about you then you could care less.  Except for you, somehow you’re a technological illiterate but you’re still just as self absorbed as the rest of them.”

Every generation feels like that about the ones coming up behind them.  Ma and Pa Hatcher used to give that same song and dance routine to my brother Roscoe and I way back when we were just a couple of kids in Bayonne.  Hell, I feel the same way about every Jackass I bump into today.

“Agnes,”  I said.  “I swear on a stack of bibles piled a mile high that I’m never going to feel whole if I don’t hear the story about how you and Herbert saw this movie together.”

The elderly librarian’s face lighted up like a Christmas tree with all the trimmings. She pulled a plastic case marked “Star Wars” out of the cabinet, removed some kind of funny looking circular thing, inserted it into the device she’d given me and led me to a table where we each took a seat.

“Well, since you put it that way,”  Agnes began.  “Herbert and I were both twenty-two at the time.  I’d just started working here and he was a student at UCLA.  My darling Herbie used to visit the library all the time, telling me that he was working on his thesis but between you and me, I think he just wanted to see me.  He always came up with some excuse to get me to help him.  Oh, such a sweetheart he was…”

I ignored all the yakkity yak and worked it out.  Twenty-two in 1977.  The broad was born in 1955, the same year I fell asleep in my office above Tsang’s China Palace.  She was sixty and looked like a decrepit old bag while I was ninety-five and still looked like a thirty-five year old.

I liked being perpetually thirty-five.  It was a good age.  Old enough to know a thing or two.  Young enough to do something about it.

Even so, it made me sad to think this gal that was younger than I was looked like she was going to meet her maker before me.

“It was so amazing,”  Agnes said.  “All of those special effects.  Things on the big screen neither of us had ever seen before.  Herb and I were blown away.  The whole audience was.  Everyone thought George Lucas was some kind of wizard.  Anyway, after the movie we went to…”

I tuned out the old hen’s clucking.  Suddenly, a terrible thought hit me like a truck running a red light.

Delilah.  Should I bother stoking the fire I had for in my heart?

Hatcher was worried that Delilah might grow old and ugly and hideous and oh yeah, that she might also die before he did. The dying before he did part was totally the part he was most worried about.

Hatcher was worried that Delilah might grow old and ugly and hideous and oh yeah, that she might also die before he did. The dying before he did part was totally the part he was most worried about, not her looks at all.

Wasn’t my favorite filly destined to one day grow as old and wrinkly and leathery and hideous as Agnes?

Oh yeah, and she might die before me too.  I wasn’t just worried about Delilah growing old and hideous and…

Wait, what was I thinking about?  I couldn’t remember.  The librarian was babbling incessantly…

“And so I bent Herbert over my knee and said, ‘This is what I do to people who don’t return their library books on time’ and then I grabbed my paddle and reached back for a good swing and…”

“Hey!”  I interrupted.  “Hey uh, yeah that’s a great story, Ag. Real great.  Say, howsabout you watch this flick with me and explain to me what the hell’s going on in it?  I’ve got a hunch I’m going to find it more confusing than a dance partner with two left feet.”

Agnes thought about it.

“Why not?”  she asked.  “I’ll put those books away later.  Kind of surprised you’ve never seen this though.  I thought everyone’s seen this one.”

“Yeah,”  I said as I leaned back.  “I’ve missed out on a lot of things.”

Editor’s Note:  It’s the official position of the Bookshelf Battle Blog that Agnes is a lovely woman and isn’t “hideous and ugly and so on.”  Hatcher can be kind of a dick sometimes, and not just a private one.

More to come…

Copyright (c) Bookshelf Q. Battler.  All Rights Reserved.

Images courtesy of a shutterstock.com license.

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